Of Air and Darkness
by TroublingAStar
Summary: ‘You haven’t spoken in days,’ Merlin says, with a kind of desperation. ‘You’ve been giving orders when you have to, making announcements, I know, but you can’t keep this up. It’ll kill you.’ Arthur/Morgana, Arthur/Gwen.


'Arthur,' Merlin says.

He pauses in the removal of his under-tunic but does not look at Merlin. He knew he could not avoid this forever, and that Merlin's silence the past few days could not last.

'Arthur, please,' Merlin says, voice heavy with emotion.

He's never understood how Merlin could do that; wear his emotions so readily and without fear.

'You haven't spoken in _days_,' Merlin says, with a kind of desperation. 'You've been giving orders when you have to, making announcements, I know, but you can't keep this up. It'll kill you.'

He'd almost forgotten his manservant's propensity towards the melodramatic, somehow. He doesn't answer, but he does shoot Merlin a _look_, the likes of which used to very successfully shut him up.

But Merlin is not to be deterred, this time. 'Arthur, _please_. You don't eat. You don't sleep! Don't think I haven't noticed, because I have, we all have, Arthur. Do you know how close Gaius is to sneaking you a sleeping potion to make sure you don't overwork yourself?'

Arthur makes a mental note to have all of his water tested before given to him.

'I _know_ you're worried about Camelot,' Merlin presses on. 'I _know_. But the people will understand if you need some time to yourself.' When he doesn't reply, Merlin goes on, 'He was your _father_, Arthur.'

'I'm well aware of that.'

Merlin looks surprised at the response, at Arthur's glare. But that doesn't stop him from continuing.

'Arthur…it's alright to mourn him, but don't destroy yourself over him. He wouldn't want that—I _know_ he wouldn't want that!'

Arthur's anger is immediate. 'And how would you presume to know that, Merlin? Perhaps he speaks to you from the next life?'

It is hard to speak of him, terribly so, but Arthur considers it no more than a penance, the final punishment for failing his father—and Camelot—and himself once again.

Merlin gapes, and then closes his mouth. 'Because he _loved_ you, Arthur! Because he loved you more than _anything_! I may be little more than a servant, but even I could see that much, plain as day.'

'Leave me,' Arthur says, and his voice is shaking.

'Arthur—'

'Are you _deaf_?'

Thankfully, Merlin does leave, and perhaps it is due to his interference that no servants or advisors come to disturb Arthur that night, the first and last time he cried for his father's passing.

* * *

He schedules the funeral to be at the same time as his coronation; it is an old custom of Camelot, and something Arthur is glad for. He has no desire to see his father's body be lowered into the ground and buried, nor to see the smirks of those who do not mourn him. He is, however, humbled by his people; he could not ask for better. They hold a candlelit vigil in the courtyard of the palace for days, and those who do not come keep candles lit in their windows.

'It's tradition, my lord,' Guinevere explains. She is one of the very few who can still look him in the eyes today. 'It's meant to guide the soul to heaven.'

He wonders if the lower town looked like this when his mother passed, and then rubs a hand over his face, mindful of the prickling feeling in his eyes. 'I am lucky to have them,' he says after a long moment, voice tight.

She smiles, and somehow the knotted feeling in his stomach lessens. 'And they are very lucky to have you, Arthur.'

He doesn't shake his head, but he does look out the window at them, at the many bright lights below. Gwen grasps his hand, and he's grateful for the warmth.

* * *

Morgana doesn't come to his father's funeral, but that's hardly a surprise. Even disregarding the circumstances, it's nearly impossible to make it from Orkney to Camelot in under a week. He is absently pulling a vest off, considering the best way to reply to King Lot's attack on the northern borders, when she appears, as suddenly and silently as a cat. He starts, a hand reaching instinctively for the hilt of his sword; his action does not go unnoticed. She laughs harshly, spreading her arms slightly.

'Is that any way to greet me, Arthur?' she asks. Then she corrects herself. 'Or should I call you High King Arthur _Pendragon_?' His surname is spit out like a curse.

He relaxes, but only slightly.

'Why are you here, Morgana?'

His hand doesn't leave his sword. He knows that it's an empty gesture; at this range, she could easily disarm him by raising a single finger, and he can't quite convince himself that he could attack her, even if necessity required it.

'I can't give my condolences at the king's death?'

He snarls, 'You _killed_ him. I should strike you down where you stand.'

'Then go ahead,' she says, eyebrows high on her head. She stiffens when he grasps the hilt and pulls the sword off of the table, but he holds it loosely it at his side. After a moment, she relaxes. 'Arthur,' she says, and it's more vulnerable this time.

'What do you _want_, Morgana?'

'It doesn't have to be like this. Between us,' she adds, as if that would things clearer. When he doesn't respond, she goes on, 'Surely you can see that it was for the good of Camelot, Arthur!'

He laughs, and it's a bitter sound. 'The good of _Camelot_? I had no idea that the Queen of Orkney cared so much about my people.'

She winces at the title, and a part of him is pleased to see it; that means that some of _his_ Morgana is still alive, the Morgana that he used to play-fight with, had his first childhood infatuation on. She's still beautiful, a small part of him notes; in her white mourning gown, she could almost pass for an angel. He turns around, staring out the window at the courtyard before, and listens as her dress rustles.

'Arthur,' she says, almost inaudibly. Then, louder, 'He killed Mordred!' Her voice breaks on the boy's name, and her next words are around a sob. 'He was just a _child_! What had he done? Arthur,' she says, and then her hands on his back. He's reminded of the countless times she's secured his armor for him, her gentle touch saying more than words ever could. 'He was so scared,' she whispers, crying into his back. 'You should have seen his face.'

He _can_ see Mordred's face, closing his eyes now. He can see those large, blue eyes, that messy hair, and the oddly expressive looks the child had sometimes shot him. He could see Mordred's face contort from its normal, eerie calm into fear as a sword swings down against that neck—

'He practiced _magic_,' Arthur says loudly, as though the volume can drown the image from his mind.

Morgana's hands leave his back. 'You can't honestly believe that warrants a death sentence.'

He doesn't know if he does or if he doesn't anymore, but he also sees the faces of his men, remembers each and every one that fell before the Druid boy's wrath. Good men, men who had sworn on their honor to follow him and Camelot till the day of their last breaths. Not a single one of them suspected that the day would come so soon. He lets the sword fall as he turns to face her, expression blank even as she flinches away from the sound of metal hitting stone.

'Get out.'

'Arthur,' she says, her eyebrows knitting.

'I said _get out_!' he shouts. 'Unless you'd rather I called the guards to escort you?'

Her expression hardens, frighteningly close to how she looked when she murdered the king of Camelot. Arthur muses how he'd fare when his closest weapon is lying on the ground next to him, though that can be remedied easily enough—

—it takes him a moment to realize that those are her lips pressed against his, that her hands are resting on his arms, lightly gripping the fabric of his tunic. Then he pushes her back, feeling as surprised as she looks; her eyes are wide and her expression disbelieving. He opens his mouth, then closes it, just _looking_ at her. Her fingers curl even more tightly, her mouth setting into a firm line.

When she pulls him into another kiss, Arthur isn't sure if it's sorcery, grief, or something else that keeps him from stopping her. What he does know is that he awakens alone the next morning, confused by the brightness of the light that pours through the window. He dresses quickly, with shaking fingers, and is somehow unsurprised by the heralds' announcement that Lot has ceased his attack. Of course Morgana wouldn't have told him. Arthur orders for reinforcements on the northern borders and, ignoring Merlin's wide-eyed stare, for his bedsheets to be burned immediately and replaced. He also has a stronger lock put onto the door of his chambers, knowing that the effort is fruitless even as he orders it. And, that next night, strange nightmares plague his dreams: of dragons, and of cats boiled alive, and of the cold, wintry sea.

* * *

It is not until sixteen years pass that Arthur meets the boy named Mordred. He had been sent, along with his brothers, from Orkney, with the hopes of joining the Round Table. Unlike his brothers, he is fair-haired and pale, and seems like a specter, standing beside them.

His green eyes, exactly like Morgana's, chill Arthur to the bone.

'It is an honor, my lord,' he says politely, bowing, and Arthur swears he can hear Morgana's laughter ringing in his ears.

* * *

_Beta'd by ignipes on livejournal, originally posted at dreamlocketry on LJ on 2/2/10._

The usual disclaimers apply.


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